Dogwood

"Morning George," I whispered as I approached an old bronze statue; a man, mounted upon a beautiful steed. My fingers traced the marble base where the name washington had been elegantly carved. It was smoother than the morning air around me, into which a young starling had begun to send her sweet song. I breathed in the wonderful smell of the dogwood trees around me and watched their petals drift sleepily to the ground.
From the base of one tired old willow, a few geese honked expectantly at me, black eyes unblinking. I flung them the rest of my buttermilk biscuit and watched the birds gobble it up greedily. Behind them was a tall sign, nailed to the willow. don't feed the birds. I smiled.